as in uffish thought she stood
by So.It.Goes
Summary: This is my first fic, so read and review. Seriously. When Jo runs into the Saints, things get interesting. This is a story about a girl who will NOT fall in love with either Murphy or Connor. Rated 'T', but there's some nasty language in here, be warned.
1. Chapter 1

_Merci beacoup, mes chers!_ to both Just-a-moment and GoddessLaughs for all their wonderful help. We'll see how it goes. . .

Also, if you like it/ hate it/ feel like blowing off some steam and ranting about how trite it is? Whatever. Read. Respond. I want criticism! Criticize me!

_It burned._

That's all she could manage to think as the bullet embedded itself in the brick wall behind her, indifferent to the bloody path it left in its wake. And, Jesus Mary and Joseph, it _burned_ like nothing she'd felt before. It wasn't like in the movies, nothing glamorous about it. The pain was ugly, intense, _real_.

She screamed as it consumed her, needled at every inch of her flesh, pinched and pulled and peeled underneath her skin. The burn spread, clawed its way across and down and everywhichway. Consciousness seemed flimsy, like it could slip through her fingers, as her legs gave out and she hit the pavement—hard. She gasped for breath and choked as the air filled her lungs. The world shifted and bent, she couldn't see—couldn't understand what she was seeing.

She didn't know how long it took for reality to kick her in the face—thirty seconds, maybe, before she remembered that the man with the gun was still there. The man who had followed her and thrown her into the alley, the man who had put his fat, fumbling hands on her, the man who had fucking shot her as she'd tried to run away stood thirty feet from her, gun pointed at her huddled frame. . .

She couldn't recall the feeling of fear or the queasy sensation that had settled in her stomach when he'd manhandled her, those feelings were ghosts. What she did remember was the satisfaction when she'd kneed him in the balls and shoved a rigid hand into his nose, and the burning; it seemed she'd never forget the burning as it spider-webbed from her arm to her toes and forehead.

"You fucking cunt." He hissed as he lowered the gun and stepped towards her. She noted the blood running from his nose.

She'd landed the punch, sure, but hadn't disabled him in any way. The only thing she'd done was royally piss him off. She'd never hit another person in her life, though she'd been quite willing to on certain occasions, it had never been called for. Any knowledge of self-defense had been absorbed from Buffy reruns and that scene from Miss Congeniality. What was that catchy little acronym? S. I. N. G., right? She was supposed to sing. Well, she'd nahg-ed, at least. Go her. Not that it had done her any good.

"You sloppy little whore!"

She tried to scramble away while keeping her right arm as still as possible. The pavement scratched at her exposed skin and the sickening smell of copper, her blood, made her dizzy. She'd managed to awkwardly crabwalk a few feet deeper into the alley before her body sagged under exhaustion and a fresh wave of pain.

He was fifteen feet away at this point, walking stiffly but with a determined look of cruelty etched into the features she could just make out in the twilight. A scar running down one side of his greasy, pock-marked face; a barely discernable upper lip; gaudy, gold jewelry; a loud, silk tie; and an expensive suit made him almost a caricature of how the 'bad guys' were supposed to look. She felt another twinge of satisfaction when she noted the amount of blood staining the breast of his jacket. _Good luck getting that shit out with club soda._

Something clicked in her mind and she plunged her hand into her purse, searching for something . . . anything. . . She'd never carried pepper spray. She'd thought herself invincible; her throbbing arm told her otherwise. She figured she was too intelligent to get into a 'situation', that if she were clever enough, she could avoid this kind of thing. No way was a quick rejoinder or fleeting sarcasm going to protect her from the next bullet.

She was going to die, she was going to die if—her hand closed around her lighter and, a second later, her travel perfume.

_No. . . . No fucking way._ She couldn't light it with her left hand; she'd never been able to. Gritting her teeth, she transferred the lighter to her right hand, grabbed the perfume bottle with her left, and fumbled to pop the lid to the glass bottle with her thumb as she watched the man push the stringy hair away from his face and tuck the gun in the front of his pants.

"Gonna have some fun with the slut before I kill her." He leered, snickering as she squealed and clumsily kicked her legs. He grabbed them easily, settling himself between her thighs; he roughly grabbed her injured arm and smiled with satisfaction at the howl of pain that burst through her lips. "Slut likes it rough, huh?"

She screeched as she smashed the perfume bottle into his face with her left hand, its delicate shape allowed it to shatter with the force and she felt the glass pierce the skin of her palm. The pain didn't register, though; it felt as though she were watching herself. The beat of her heart hammered in her ears, so loud that she could barely make out his scream as she twisted her palm, forcing the glass deeper into both of their skin.

Somehow, as he released her arm to cover his face, she was able to move her injured arm. Holding the lighter under his chin, she flicked the Zippo to life. It seemed as if the world had been in slow motion and suddenly, as the flame caught, whatever twisted fuck was running the show pressed play.

The heat burned her eyes, but she managed to kick him off and roll a couple of feet away. He collapsed, his body jerking as the fire spread to his clothing—guess it was only expensive _looking_. He screamed. And, funny enough, that was the scream that brought the fear back, that was the scream she actually heard. That scream sounded like her death sentence. It was the purest from of pain and rage and hate she'd ever experienced and she wished she could cover her ears, close her eyes, and wish everything away.

Movement at the mouth of the alley caught her attention.

"Murphy! Fuck, Murph, he's on fucking fire!" The voice echoed off of the bare walls of the alley and she could just make out the figure running towards her. The crack of a second gunshot rang in her ears. Fleetingly, she'd thought she'd been shot, and sadly enough, the certainty of death felt strangely relieving, but the flaming body stopped yelling and jerked once before falling still, burning slowly.

A second figure appeared beside the first. Squinting against the sudden light of the fire, she tried to make out their faces. One of them turned towards her, and quickly made his way around the body before kneeling in front of her. "Oi, Conner! Here!" He gestured wildly to the first man before turning his attention towards her. "Hey, What's yer name?"

She feebly kicked at him as he leaned towards her, knowing full well that she wouldn't be able to fight the two of them, she tried anyway. "Get the fuck away." She gritted as her foot connected with his side.

"Oi! The fuck? I'm not gonna hurt ye, lass." He glared at her as he batted away another kick. "Calm the fuck down." She kicked out again, but he grabbed her leg and held it down.

The first man knelt beside him and put his hands in the air—no gun in sight.

"We'll not hurt ye. Alright?" He sounded nervous, but sincere. "We heard ye scream and came to see what's what. Alright? Just calm down. We'll not hurt ye." She relaxed her legs, partly because his voice calmed her, and partly because she didn't have the energy to continue the battle. If they were lying, there was nothing she could do to protect herself at this point and _fuck_ her arm was throbbing.

"Ye hurt anyplace?" The second asked, releasing her leg. He placed a hand on her right elbow and the other on her face, tapping her slightly and forcing her face towards him. "Hey. Hey, hey, look here. Ye hurt?" His hand shifted from her elbow and she let out a yelp.

He released her arm immediately and the other man leaned closer to look at her arm, "Aye, she's shot, Murph."

She looked up when she heard the name, breathing unevenly. "I had a ferret named Murphy; it was a girl, though." She giggled slightly.

Both men looked at her as if she'd sprouted a second head.

The lighter haired man grinned after a moment, "I've had me doubts with me Murphy, here." He grabbed for her arm and she flinched away from him.

"I'm just gonna take a looksee, right? I'll be careful."

She winced as he fingered the front and back of her arm, gasping at the of pain from his gentle, hesitant touch.

After a moment, he sighed and pulled back a bit, "Aye," he said, pulling back bloodied fingers, "in and out, but still bleeding like a damned fucker. Aint ya?" Catch her ayes briefly, his smile was tight as he leaned back on his heals and struggled with his belt before taking it off.

She stared at the belt, transfixed, before Murphy put a gentle hand to her face, turning it so the she couldn't watch.

"This may sting a bit, lass." He murmured, "But we've got to stop the bleeding." She broke his gaze and watched as the other man created a sort of double-ring with his belt, but Murphy forced her face back to his. "Ye hear me? He's gonna stop it, but ye're gonna have to let him."

She whimpered as she felt her arm being lifted away from her body, but maintained eye contact with Murphy as the belt was looped around her arm. "There's a girl, just sit it out. It'll be over in a mo' and we'll get you to the hospital. No worries now."

"Ow. Fuck, ow!" She sobbed. No, she wasn't a pussy, but Jesus, she'd been _shot_. "Ow, it hurts." Her voice sounded strange to her ears.

"Squeeze me hand. It'll help. I've been shot meself, same place." He gripped her right hand and pulled back immediately when she screeched.

"The fucks wrong with yer hand?" He glanced at his own, now covered in blood.

"Stop fucking making her scream! It's raising me fucking hackles! Christ!" The other man dropped the belt and ran a shaking hand through his hair.

"Oh, fuck you, it's not like I'm trying." Murphy shook his head, as he cupped her hand I both of his. "It's scrawbed good and proper, here." He tilted her hand, "Looks like glass."

"Perfume bottle." She gasped, reeling from the shock of pain, which, ironically, seemed to be the only thing that was keeping her coherent.

She received a set of looks not unlike the set she'd received after the ferret comment.

She shook her head, too tired to explain. "Later."

Murphy's eyes widened and the other man shook his head in disbelief. "I think we've got quite the scrappy lil hellion on our hands, Murph."

Murphy took up her hand and tilted it towards the light, "Ye got two good chunks in there, but that's all I can see."

"Get them out."

"Ye sure?"

"No, but just do it."

Murphy nodded, "Ye got anything to wrap it with?"

"Bandana. In my pocket."

Murphy leaned forward and dug into the front pocket of her jeans, retrieving a black bandana and before she knew it, he'd yanked both shards of glass from her palm and wrapped the bandana securely around it.

"Ye ready for the belt now?" He asked as he smoothed the knot of the bandana on the back of her hand.

She nodded, but tensed as the other man moved towards her arm. When his hands touched the belt, she jerked away. She shot an imploring look at Murphy, "C-can I have your hand?"

There was a quiet look of surprise in his eyes as he took her hand wordlessly.

She squeezed it as hard as she could as the other man tightened the belt. The skin on her upper arm was pulled tight and it felt like a flaming metal rod had been shoved through the hole in her arm. "Fucking LIAR!" She dug her nails into his hand brutally and released it immediately after the belt was secured.

Murphy stood abruptly, yanking his hand away and shaking it. "Ah! Fuck, girl. What?!"

"It. Didn't. Fucking. Help." She gasped between shaking breaths.

The lighter haired man laughed. Murphy leaned forward and tapped her cheek lightly, "Aye, but you let us fix you, dincha?"

She laughed weekly as she relaxed against the cool wall, tilting her face to press her flushed cheek against it. "I guess," She laughed weakly, "if you consider this 'fixed'."

They let her rest for a few moments, but the cloying smell of burning flesh and polyblend fabric began to claw at her lungs. Between the two of them, they managed to move her just outside of the alley without jarring her too much.

As soon as they'd situated her, they crouched down against the same wall. The wind whipped their faces, cool, but not cold.

She breathed deeply against the pain in her arm and hand. She'd grown up in a relatively sheltered home. Angry parents and siblings aside, she'd never had anything very traumatic happen to her, no real violence. This, though, this was something she'd never thought possible—or probable. How very cliché. Twenty year old, pothead girl gets raped and shot in an alley. She rolled her eyes slightly. But she hadn't, had she? No, she fought tooth and fucking nail, just like she'd told herself she would if the occasion ever arose. She smiled slightly. Then the pain came back, only different this time.

The tremors started with her legs and slowly moved up her body until she was uncontrollably shaking, her breaths coming rapidly and erratically, her entire body seemed to twitch with every beat of her heart.

Both men reached out to steady her, but she shoved them away with her good arm. Being touched only heightened the sensation. She needed to ride this out on her own. She pressed herself against the wall of the alley, keening as the pain washed over her in waves.

"Hey!" Murphy's arms fluttered over her limbs, not quite touching, but searching for something to do. "Connor? The fucks wrong with her?"

She breathed deeply as the tremors slowly subsided. "No-nothings wrong."

Connor laughed humorlessly, "The fuck it aint. Ye've been shot, girl."

"Stop calling me 'girl'."

"Alright, then what're we supposed to call ye?"

"Jo."

Murphy chuckled, "Is that your name?"

As tired as she was, she was able to summon enough energy to roll her eyes and shoot Murphy a look.

"Alright, Jo, it's off to the fucking hospital with you."

Her eyes snapped open. "Eh. . .nope, no hospital." It seemed that she should get used to the just-sprouted-two-heads look, as this was the third time they'd shot it at her in perfect unison.

"An' why the fuck not?"

"I don't want to go—nuff said." She sighed deeply as her limbs began to tingle. The burn was mellowing, but the world was getting hazy. She vaguely felt their hands on her and one of them mumbling "Too fucking bad." before her world went black.


	2. Chapter 2

Alright, kids, here's the second chapter. Another hyper-shout-out to GoddessLaughs who continues to lend a more-than-helping hand to my efforts. . . Seriously, she rocks the house down. Also, if you want to see what real writing looks like, check out her fic.

In other news, I've figured out how to allow anonymous reviews. Express yourself freely, fellow fic peeps! I'll listen—swear.

Jo hiked the army surplus bag a bit higher on her left shoulder, loosely pulling the thick strap with her left hand. It was awkward and she knew the pain medication would wear off eventually. The pain would be back. For now, though, she could handle it. She'd been stuck in the goddamn hospital for two days now, though she'd only been conscious for a small part of it. As she walked down the busy Boston street, she felt almost immediately giddy with relief as the wind whipped her face and the itchy, starched feeling of 'hospital' began to fade. She deeply inhaled the dirty city air sighed contentedly.

Yesterday, her eyes had opened and all she could see was a very large, brown water spot on the ceiling of her room. Her head had fallen to the side and she saw an IV tower, half of the perfectly clean room, and a very large Hispanic woman injecting something into the tube-thing that was attached to her arm. The first thing she felt was irritation, the kind that ningles at the back of your neck, threatening to intensify. Her arm was securely held to her chest by a complicated looking sling, she felt confined, her skin itched from the rough bed sheets, and the woman who was smiling at her had her all collywobbled from the look of her clownishly freakish makeup. Shocking blue eyeliner around her eyes, nearly brown lipstick and even darker liner; she looked . . . frightening. Really. Freaking. Scary. That was a face she wouldn't forget anytime soon.

Somehow, she'd hid her grimace, sweet-talked the woman into retrieving the bag that had been brought in with her, and waited until she was alone. Bidding her time until the pleasant buzz of the morphine lulled her into a hazy-lucidity; she clumsily managed to rip a strip from the bottom of her gown with her teeth. She needed out. That need was the only thing that allowed her to rip the IV from her arm swiftly and decisively before securing the cloth around the gash, again using her teeth more than either of her hands. Finding her shoes next to her bed, she pulled on her jeans and a tee shirt, and slipped quietly out of the hospital.

At first, she'd been slightly panicked about the medical bills, how she'd handle them, but dismissed the worry. Sure, they had her name, but she didn't have an address, which would complicate the process of sending her a bill. Her parents didn't even know the name of the shelter she'd been shaking in for the last week. She stopped at the first bench, sitting down carefully and riffling through the bag for her cell. When her contacts came up, she could have sobbed in relief. Holding the four down, she pushed the phone against her ear, cradling it awkwardly in her bandaged hand.

After two rings, he answered. "Yeah?" Though he voice wasn't comforting, it was familiar and it signified the promise of relief, release.

"Damien." She sighed, "It's me."

"Jojo." He purred mockingly, though she could detect a hint of annoyance in his teasing tone, "I should be hurt. I though we were on Friday night."

She nestled the phone between her head and shoulder and began rummaging through the contents of her bag, "If I told you there'd been a change in plans, it would be the fucking understatement of the century." She heard him chuckle slightly, the situation rolling right off his back.

She shook her head, smiling slightly, "I'll explain in person. Where're you posted?"

"Now? Right outside Black's, that coffee place on fourth. The art fag crowd seems to dig on the business."

"I'm sure they do, D." She replied, distracted as she counted the number of bills in her wallet. Six hundred. She'd try her ATM card, though she couldn't count on it . . . shrugging, she figured she'd cross that bridge when it came. "Listen, D. I'm coming now. Wait for me?"

"Depends," He said lightly, "you gonna stand me up again?"

"Cool it, man. You'll understand when I tell you."

He laughed, "Alright boss lady. I'll wait, but don't keep me waiting."

"Yeah, yeah. Gimme ten, right?"

"I'll give you fifteen, but only 'cause I'm nice."

She snorted, flipping the phone shut and throwing it into her bag. Damien was a lot of things. _Nice_ wasn't one of them.

She stood; rolling her shoulders and neck carefully. The ATM was the only thing she needed to take care of before she could get to Damien. Hopefully her father hadn't cancelled the account yet, though it was only a matter of time until he did. She selfishly hoped he was still reeling from the dramatic events of the week prior, to worry about bank keeping.

Two blocks later, she was standing in front of a fairly nasty looking and _smelling_ ATM just outside of a trashy, hole-in-the-wall convenient store. She bit her lip, shuffling through her wallet for her bank card. As her fingers clumsily tried to pick it out of its tight confines, a small piece of white paper fluttered to the ground, nearly landing in a puddle of questionable fluid. She bent down slowly, picking up the paper and unfolding it.

It was a note, a hastily scribbled note on the back of a flyer. Glancing at the bottom she noticed there were two names, Conner and Murphy. Connor and Murphy. . . Connor and—_Fuck._ The realization hit her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. Grasping the leaf of paper in a shaking hand, she quickly read its contents. It told her not to worry about any legal repercussions; they'd taken care of it. The case had been declared self-defense without a second thought. Directly below their names there was an address, written in a different script than the rest of the message. She refolded the paper and slipped it back into her wallet, unsure of what to make of it. It wasn't fucking likely that she'd ever want to revisit that night.

After accessing her account, she withdrew another four hundred dollars; not wanting to freeze her holdings or draw any unnecessary attention. She shoved the bills in her front pocket and made her way to the curb, sticking out her bandaged hand to hail a cab. She was able to relax against the cool, worn leather seats of the car. It felt like she was living in a thick haze, everything seemed forced, unreal. Her skin felt rubbery, the back of her head and neck had been tingling since she'd opened her eyes earlier that day, her arm was starting to burn again, but she felt detached, serene even.

She was slightly disappointed when the cab pulled to a stop, but begrudgingly handed the cabbie a ten and slid out of the car.

"Damn, Jo." She heard a low whistle from across the street. "Who broke a switch on your ass?" She couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips when she caught sight of Damien. He was leaning against the window of the store, joint pinched nonchalantly between his fingers. He looked. . . hot. Scruffy reddish-brown hair, sleek, muscular physique, thin tee shirt stretched across is defined chest, tattoos working their way up his left arm—hot. His eyes were pinning her to the sidewalk; a hazy, lidded gaze that made her all kinds of nervous—mostly in the good ways.

After a moment, she managed to get her feet to move. "Cute, Damien." She said flippantly, sidling next to him, grabbing the proffered joint, and taking a long, slow toke. "Now you understand the delay in plans?"

"Yeah, yeah, no problem." She passed the joint, trying to hide the surprise she felt at the concern in his voice. "What went down?"

"Mugging." She shrugged, the lie falling off her tongue easily, "Bastard wanted my shit. I didn't want to hand it over."

He looked almost impressed, "You are one stubborn little bitch."

"Always." She took the joint out of his fingers, fingering it thoughtfully, " I got shot." She gestured to her arm.

Damien choked, thumping his chest with a fist, "You shitting me?"

"I shit you not. Been in the hospital the last two days."

"And now you got the jones. . ."

"Yeah." She nodded. One thing she didn't like, was that tone of his. The tone that made her feel predictable, dependant, which, okay, maybe she was—doesn't mean she likes being treated like a junky.

He smiled, "For a little special D, yeah?" He leered at her, licking his lips slightly and leaning in.

"Perve," She muttered good-naturedly. They passed the joint wordlessly for a while before she broke the silence, " So listen, I left the hospital in kind of a hurry and I'm thinking I might need something-"

"-for the thrashing?" He nodded, pitching the bud and digging in his coat before producing two small bags from his pocket.

"I know you came for this," He said, discreetly tucking the weed into her bag for her, "but these will take the edge off." He jiggled the bag slightly, the white pills inside bouncing playfully to the tune of his wrist. He tucked them in her bag as well, shamelessly letting his hand graze her breast as he pulled back.

She smirked, "How much? And don't think I didn't notice that."

He waved a hand at her, "Later. And I was hoping you did. I got something else for you, though, boss."

"Yeah? What's that?"

He held up another white pill between his thumb and forefinger, "For the road?"

She felt the tension in her shoulders as she reached for it, but he pulled it out of her reach., shaking his head. "No hands, Jo."

She rolled her eyes slightly, but opened her mouth. He placed the pill of her tongue gently, brushing her lip with his thumb as he pulled his hand away, all while looking directly into her eyes.

She swallowed the pill and hiked her bag on her shoulder, backing away from the intensity of his stare, "Later, cuz."

"Yo, Jo!" Damien called a moment before she turned the corner. "You grilling tonight?"

"Not so much, D." She waved a hand at her injured arm, a convenient excuse to cover her distaste for partying. "Be seeing you, yeah?"

"I'm sure you will," She could just make out the cocky smirk on his face as she turned back around and closed the distance between them.

She looked him dead in the eye, "What do you know, Damien?"

The fucking smirk stayed firmly in place. "Only that I," he leaned forward, "would like to see you," his mouth was only an inch from her ear, "later." His tongue barely touched the hinge of her jaw before he leaned back and raised his pierced brow, "You catch me?"

She didn't know whether it was the pill making her skin tingle and head cloud, or him. She figured it was a little of both, "Yeah. Yeah, I got it."

She smiled slightly as she pulled away from him a bit. There'd always been something alluring about Damien. She'd been buying from him for a little over a year now and he always seemed dangerously attractive. Nothing good about him: dealer, drop-out, damaged goods. There was just something about his arrogant demeanor, his self-assurance, something about the fact that he seemed untouchable, that made her. . . _curious. _

_Curious and totally enthralled._

"Where?"

"Here." He laughed when her face fall into a mask of skepticism. He continued to chuckle as he casual pushed his shaggy hair behind his ear. "No, we _start_ here. I'll know where we're headed by tonight. You in?"

She smiled coyly, "Be seeing you." She turned then, walking way from him, and keeping her back turned in order to hide the smile that seemed fairly securely attached to her face.


End file.
